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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26714260">Don't Hope For Things Elsewhere</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes'>Alexander_Writes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Blood Devastation Death War and Horror - and tonight we're going to talk to a man who does gardening, Dystopian, Friendship, Hopeless POV, M/M, Nineteen Eighty-Four Crossover (but light-hearted ?), Nonbinary Character, Or 18th, Rebellion, Totalitarian State, Vaguely 17th Century</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:22:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26714260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A hand grasped his wrist so tightly it stung, and Hopeless spun him towards them. Their eyes were grey like stone, Erskine realised blankly, like the prison buildings in Dublin’s west. When they spoke their voice was quiet and rough.<br/>“I know you’re new. But here, when you’re told something is mandatory you do it, unless you want to be swinging from the gibbet next.”<br/>Erskine looked down at Hopeless’ hand, and they loosened their grip a little. Something in their face cracked then.<br/>“Please, Erskine, just come.”</p><p>In an Alternate Universe where the Unnamed took control long before the War even began, Erskine, Hopeless, Larrikin and the rest try to resist the totalitarian state they were born into, in differing ways.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Erskine Ravel &amp; Ghastly Bespoke, Hopeless &amp; Erskine Ravel, Larrikin/Dexter Vex, the Dead Men - Ensemble - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don't Hope For Things Elsewhere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(Title and Chapter Names are from "The City" by CP Cavafy, translated by Edmund Keeley.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hopeless was thirty-five when the most beautiful man they had ever seen moved into the flat below theirs. It was a cold Thursday evening. Hopeless had just returned from work to see two cardboard boxes in the stairwell. Someone was cursing above them, sounding masculine and young. Hopeless stepped past the boxes, let the glass door slam shut behind them. The voice went silent.</p><p>Hopeless’ block was dark and stank lightly of refuse and despair. Even the Cleavers ignored it on their regular rounds. The apartments themselves were half empty; previous residents had lived and died here and the landlord had not bothered to lease the flat out again. So Hopeless assumed that one of their neighbours had a visitor for a moment, before realising that the voice came from vacated flat number twelve, the one directly below flat thirteen – Hopeless’ home. Hopeless shrugged and squeezed past the boxes, making their way up the concrete steps. It had been a tiring day at the office. Hopeless just wanted to put their satchel down and sleep. They wouldn’t bother eating tonight.</p><p>The door to flat twelve was ajar. Somebody was banging about within. For a moment Hopeless paused, considering whether to introduce themself. It was risky to talk to new people, but Hopeless hadn’t had a proper conversation with anyone outside of work in much too long now.</p><p>The newcomer took the choice out of their hands.</p><p>“Is someone there?” he called.</p><p>“Hello,” Hopeless responded, and the clattering stopped.</p><p>A man pushed the door open fully. He was wearing a grey buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled above the elbow, dark trousers. His eyes were peculiar. Hopeless looked at him and blinked. There were few people in this world that Hopeless would classify as gorgeous; he was one of them. The man wiped his hand on his corduroy trousers and then extended it. Hopeless shook it instinctively.</p><p>“My name’s Hopeless,” they said, fidgeting with the silver bracelet on their wrist. “I’m up above, in flat thirteen. Are you moving in?”</p><p>There was no flinch at the obviously magical name. Instead, the man smiled.</p><p>“Erskine Ravel,” he responded. “Yes, I am actually. Came to Dublin for work. Nice to meet you, Hopeless.”</p><p>“Do you need any help with your things?” Hopeless asked.</p><p>Ravel blinked. “That would be great, thanks. I just had a five-hour coach trip.”</p><p>Hopeless nodded and shucked off their satchel. They were suddenly thankful they had taken off their badge when they finished their shift. Even a newcomer would recognise the name of Hopeless’ workplace. They followed Erskine’s directions, carrying one of the last two boxes up the stairs, but hesitated at the doorway.</p><p>“You can come in,” Erskine called, amusedly.</p><p>Hopeless leant the box on their hip to take up their satchel and entered his apartment. Erskine’s apartment was the same model as Hopeless’, but less lived in and with different but equally ghastly wallpaper. Hopeless placed the box beside two others in the centre of the living-room. Everything was cramped. The kitchen had pots on the stovetop, and Erskine was unpacking the rest of his cooking supplies.</p><p>“So, what do you do, Hopeless?” Erskine asked, as Hopeless walked into the kitchen properly.</p><p>“I have an absolutely boring job, with lots of paperwork,” they said. “How about you?”</p><p>“I got a job at the tavern down the road. Or rather, a friend got me one. The factory I worked in at Sloane closed down, I had to move on.” He shrugged.</p><p>Sloane was a town on the other side of Ireland, which produced cloth and leather and weapons. New trading routes from the recently recaptured continent meant local factories were letting off workers.</p><p>“Have you seen much of Dublin?”</p><p>“No,” Erskine said with a quirk of his lips. “I could barely get a travel permit to work here.”</p><p>Ravel was not an adept, then. An elemental, then, and one from a rural, less regulated area. The lowest of the low, within magical spheres, though still higher than the most talented and intelligent mortal. Hopeless looked at Erskine again, and then around the kitchen. The tiles were a nicer shade of blue than in their own place, the sink and stove in better condition than theirs when they’d moved in. Something important was missing.</p><p>“Do you have food?” They asked after a moment, with a frown.</p><p>Erskine looked around at the pots for a moment, then swore. He ran a hand through his hair. There were rings under his eyes, visible in the dingy lighting.</p><p>“No,” he said, and swore again. “I knew there was something I forgot.”</p><p>Hopeless did some calculations. There would be no shops open, and Erskine wouldn’t have any valid food tickets until he started working anyway. Hopeless couldn’t shop until Monday, but they could stretch their food out until then, maybe.</p><p>“I should have enough for you,” Hopeless said. “Though I have no meat.”</p><p>Erskine looked up with a frown. “I can’t take your food.”</p><p>“It’s not charity,” Hopeless said, and because he looked ready to protest vehemently, they added. “You’ll have to cook the meal. I had a whole day shift and was planning to sleep the night away and miss dinner altogether, so you’ll actually be doing me a favour.”</p><p>Erskine scanned his place with a thoughtful look. It all felt curiously empty, despite the mess. Nothing about it felt homely.</p><p>“I might take you up on that,” Erskine said, pocketing his door key.</p><p>Hopeless lead him up to their apartment. They had lived here for over a decade, before they had started working at the Department. The carpet was well-worn. There was a pile of books in the living room which were the product of years saving up the necessary ration cards. The furniture was wooden, and there was even a miniature landscape painting set on the kitchen wall. The whole place was compact, clean, but Hopeless fidgeted as Erskine looked at it all.</p><p>“What’s this?” Erskine asked, staring at the record player on the coffee table.</p><p>“Nothing,” Hopeless said tightly. They were tired, but surely not tired enough to forget the technically legal but almost contraband item they’d left in plain view? They were getting complacent.</p><p>Erskine was grinning, examining it. “Do you have any discs?”</p><p>“You can’t tell anyone about that.”</p><p>“Who would I tell?”</p><p>Hopeless closed the front door and started to smile. “If I play something on it, will you make dinner?”</p><p>“Where is your music selection?” Erskine asked, after a nod.</p><p>“Give me a second,” they said, going into their bedroom and shutting the door. They squeezed under their wardrobe, and quietly eased their four records out from the hiding-place. And then they paused, prone on their stomach. What were they doing? Letting a stranger into their home? He could be an agent, for all that Hopeless knew, and then where would they be? In prison, most likely, the ultimate irony. This will be my only risk this year, they promised themselves. Just this one. And in any case, the music <em>itself </em>would only land them a hefty fine.</p><p>“I have some folk music,” Hopeless called.</p><p>“Sounds amazing,” Erskine replied. “I haven’t heard music since my violin broke.”</p><p>Hopeless walked back into the living room. Erskine was sitting on the couch politely. Hopeless passed him the disc for his approval, then made sure all the doors and windows were closed. Erskine carried the disc and player into the kitchen, and placed them on the table. He fiddled with the dials until the sound was at the lowest possible volume, and slotted the disc in. The two of them almost had to hold their breath to hear it, but there was no way any of their neighbours would be suspicious. A woman’s voice hummed over the strumming of guitar strings, and Hopeless’ shoulders eased. They slumped into the nearest chair.</p><p>“Alright,” Erskine said. “What am I cooking?”</p><p>“Anything you like,” Hopeless said quietly. “There are eggs in the cooler, with bread and vegetables. There should be beans somewhere too.”</p><p>“Let’s have something easy,” Erskine said.</p><p>“That sounds delightful,” Hopeless said.</p><p>Erskine toasted up the bread and scrambled eggs and fried vegetables, and Hopeless listened to the music silently. Then they ate together at the kitchen table.</p><p>“Do you read often?” Erskine asked.</p><p>“Whatever I can get my hands on,” Hopeless admitted. “But mostly poetry.”</p><p>Erskine nodded. “Mortal or magical poets?”</p><p>Hopeless smiled. “Mortal, obviously. Magical poets always have superior undertones to their work, and I want to just <em>read</em>, not get reminded about real life every five seconds.”</p><p>“Yes, magical poets are usually more political,” Erskine agreed diplomatically. “I didn’t get time to read it, but I remember being subjected to some when I was younger. It was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.”</p><p>Hopeless grinned. “You don’t like poetry?”</p><p>“I haven’t been exposed to enough of it to know,” he said and smiled.</p><p>“Well, when we’re both less tired I can read some to you, if you like?”</p><p>“That sounds good,” he said, finishing his meal. He put bowls in the sink and went to clean up.</p><p>“Leave it,” Hopeless said. “The person cooking doesn’t wash up.”</p><p>“All right, then,” Erskine said. The remnants of his energy had gone. “I’ll see you around, then?”</p><p>Hopeless had hoped for a longer conversation. They nodded instead, and thanked him.</p><p>“Pleasure to meet you,” Erskine said.</p><p>For a moment the two looked at each other, and Erskine smiled again, wider.</p><p>"Goodnight," Hopeless said, and he left.</p><p>Hopeless secured the music and the record player properly before they slept that night.</p>
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